Here the first sharp pain in my back,
As Prince Autumn stabs the first cold coil into my spine,
The Wind piercing,
From casts of blusters,
Crushing them in the hands of a brisk death,
Where the final flashes of color across their edges,
Are mistaken for beauty.
Where there will soon be despair,
We ponder the moments before the funeral,
Paying tribute to a season that claims the life of Life,
That castrates Spring and Summer,
That we celebrate when we should spit on,
That swallows our dreams of the passing year for good.
It’s 80 in California,
Suck my rocks,
I will never die.
— Walt Whitman